The Dark Forest: A Collection Of Erotic Fairytales

by Zoe Blake

  Beatrice’s eyes flew open to clash with his own in the mirror.

  “I want you to see all the beautiful colors of your arousal. A pinkened cunny, desire filled golden eyes, an expanse of ivory skin.”

  At his taunting words, Beatrice’s finger slipped between her nether lips. Sliding through the silken dew of her arousal, she moved the tip of her finger back and forth. Back and forth. Increasing the pressure with each sweep.

  “That’s it, love. Don’t stop,” he breathed against her ear. Entranced by the sight of her pleasuring herself. Her long red-tipped fingers dipping in and out of her cunny. Shimmering with her own dew, the undeniable proof of her arousal. She could fight him all she wanted. He knew the truth. Her body knew the truth.

  She could feel the harsh outlines of his own arousal pressing against her back. How far was she going to allow him to take this? Did she have a choice?

  She could smell the citrus, clove and lime oil from his bay rum soap. There was also a hint of fresh grass and the slightly mineral smell of fresh water. He must have bathed in the river that ran along the edge of her father’s property. His body felt cool and damp against her own. The thin remnants of her silk dressing gown which clung to her back offered no protection. Cool drops of water dripped from his wet hair to fall on her bared shoulder. The chill of the water a sharp contrast from her punishment heated skin.

  Focusing on the swarthy hand which once again cupped her breast. The chestnut, sun-kissed skin engulfing her pampered ivory flesh. His scent. The sounds of his breathing. The touch of his breath on her neck. The power of his presence. Her own swirling emotions. Beatrice slipped a second finger along the seam of her lips. Teasing the outer edge of her cunny as her fingertip pressed against the bud. She used the curved tip of her nail to cause that delicious pinch of pain she always secretly craved before finding a release. Twisting against his restraining arm, Beatrice arched her back.

  Rhys hardened his grip on her left breast as his free hand wrapped around her throat. Feeling the flutter of her quickened breath against his palm. Lifting her up, the toes of her slippers barely touched the cold marble as she was suspended in his embrace. His hand on her throat. His arm holding her tight above the floor. It gave her a weightless, breathless feel…detached from all reality. Floating as if in a dream.

  She looked on their reflection in the mirror as if they were characters in a storybook.

  Lovers entwined.

  Aggressive adversaries.

  It wasn’t real. It was all too real.

  The image warped. Spinning and swirling. Colors, sights and sounds twisting and blending.

  Rhys moved his hand from her throat to grasp her jaw. Forcing her head back, he swallowed her cry of release. Pushing in deep, she tasted of red wine and supplication.

  Rhys swept an arm under her knees just as they weakened. Raising her into his strong arms, he carried Beatrice’s momentarily passive form to the large bed which dominated the room.

  Placing her among the plush cerulean bedcovers, Rhys paused to admire how her bright, tawny locks fanned out about her like a peacock’s pride. The delicate pink flush of her ivory skin all the more pronounced against the deep royal blue blanket. Her bruised and swollen lips a beautiful garnet. He made a note to commission a gold necklace with the largest garnet he could find to grace her neck. He wanted to be forever reminded of this moment. Her golden hair…kissed crimson lips…and his necklace wrapped around her throat…a physical token of his constant presence.

  Before those amber eyes opened filled with reproach and fire, Rhys acted quickly. Gripping the heavy braided cord which held back her bed curtains, Rhys secured her wrists with a tight knot.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” screeched Beatrice as she tried to sit up brutally snatched from her blissful aftermath.

  Ignoring her outburst, Rhys secured the remaining cord to the post at the center of her mahogany headboard.

  “Untie me this instant,” Beatrice ranted as she shifted her hips side to side on the bed, trying to turn onto her stomach to preserve what was left of her modesty.

  Staring down at her prone, bare form, Rhys reached for the buttons on his breeches.

  Beatrice stilled. Taking in the hard, toned muscles of his chest and the flat planes of his stomach, she swallowed…whether it was in fear or anticipation she didn’t know. She watched as his large hands carefully handled each small bone button. Watched as more skin was slowly exposed, still as swarthy and dark as his upper body. Oh my, she thought with trepidation. It must mean he was accustomed to being unclothed in the sunshine. Perhaps bathing in the river. A vision of his hard, naked body sluicing through the crisp, blue water sprang before her eyes. The rivulets of water would trickle through his chest hair, following the deeply cut path of each defined muscle.

  Her reverie was broken the moment his breeches fell to the marble floor. Beatrice focused on the useless bit of cloth. Focused on the course brown fabric. On his toes as they peeked out beneath. Focused on anything but him…and that!

  “Look at me, Bea.” His rough voice darkened with desire.

  “No one calls me Bea,” she breathed, keeping her eyes trained down.

  “I do.”

  Beatrice could not resist looking at his face then. His green eyes were warmed to the deep, rich color of forest moss. In their depths, she could see his intent. This was no seduction. No limp-wrist attempt at wooing her like the men her father was constantly parading in front of her like male breeding studs.

  No. This was domination. This was taking. Conquering. This was raw, primal behavior by a man unaccustomed to the formal, gentilities of high society. The stable master. A servant.

  “This has gone too far. Untie me,” ordered Beatrice, unable to hide the note of panic in her voice.

  “No.”

  “You are my subordinate. You are not permitted to say no to me.”

  “By the time the night is through, you will be the one subservient to me.”

  Pulling at her tight binds, Beatrice’s chest rose in anger. The movement only pushing her soft round curves and hardened nipples more prominently into view. “How dare you?” she spat out.

  Rhys placed one hand at her side as he edged himself onto the bed, slowly prowling till he straddled her hips.

  Pinning her under its weight. Just like in her dream. The beast claiming what was his.

  Digging his fingers into her thick curls, he forced her head up. With his free hand, he fisted the heavy weight of his cock.

  “Look at me,” he once more commanded, this time more fiercely.

  Beatrice looked down at the shaft in his hand. Even in his large hand it looked substantial…long, hard and thick. The bulbous tip alone looked to almost be the size of her closed fist. Living on a country estate, Beatrice was no stranger to the natural ways. There was absolutely no imagining which would fit that…that…member…inside her body. This was just further proof why the upper class did not mix with the lower. They were incompatible in every way imaginable.

  Gripping it tighter, Rhys moved his hand up and down the shaft, to give him some ease. Beatrice watched in horrified fascination as the skin turned a purplish crimson.

  It was a beast! He was a beast. She must escape.

  With renewed vigor, Beatrice pulled at her binds.

  Rhys shifted forward. Placing his thighs along her ribcage, he squeezed them, pressing against her sides. Leaning up on his knees, he placed the tip of his cock within a breath of her lips.

  “Open your mouth.”

  Beatrice stubbornly thinned her lips tightly closed. A look of defiance flashed in her golden eyes.

  Rhys had been thinking of feeling her tight wet mouth enclosed on his cock from the very first moment she opened it to insult him. He would not be deterred.

  “Open your mouth, or I will force it open.”

  Beatrice kept her mouth closed. How could he possibly force it op…

  Without taking his intent gaze off her, Rhys reached
back and spanked her still swollen cunny.

  Beatrice cried out in surprised pain.

  Rhys shifted his hips forward, placing the head of his cock between her lips.

  Beatrice opened her mouth wider, preparing to use her teeth.

  “Bite me and I will turn you over and whip your backside with a leather strap till you beg for mercy,” he warned ominously.

  Beatrice’s eyes grew wide at the threat.

  “Swirl your tongue around the head. Taste me.”

  Beatrice had no choice but to obey. Tentatively, brushing the tip of her tongue against his flesh. She was surprised by the salty, musk taste. Earthy. Male. Him.

  Using his grip on her hair, Rhys pushed her head forward, forcing her to swallow more of his cock.

  Beatrice choked. The bottom tip of her tongue scraped against her teeth as his shaft pressed deeper into her mouth. The largely rounded head, striking the back of her throat. It was too much. Her lips felt stretched and pulled. She could taste the metallic sting of blood from where her tongue pressed against her own teeth. Her breath became labored. Tears sprung to her eyes from the sharp pull on her hair as she tried to pull away.

  Rhys pulled his cock free from her lips.

  “Stop fighting me. The more you fight the rougher I will get,” he growled. If she were going to be his wife, he would have to show her who was master now. There was no point in pretending she could pull her usual temper tantrum games in their bed.

  Gripping his cock, Rhys tapped the head against her stubbornly closed lips. “Open.”

  Beatrice glared at him with narrowed eyes.

  “Open.”

  Rhys raised an eyebrow as he raised his hand shifting his shoulder back, ready to strike her already pained cunny.

  With a sob, Beatrice dropped her sign of defiance and opened her mouth…slightly.

  Rhys grinned. Feisty till the end. Good.

  Raising up on his knees, he straddled her narrow shoulders with one strong hand gripping the headboard for leverage. Leaning over her, he saw real fear flash in her eyes before guiding his cock past her lips.

  He was going to force her to take every, long hard inch. Pushing his hips forward, he watched in fascination as his thick shaft painfully widened her lips. Her muffled cries did nothing to deter him. He pushed onward. Feeling the edge of her teeth on the soft underside of his cock. Her tongue as it hopelessly tried to dislodge him. The squeeze of her cheeks as she fought for breath.

  Rhys pressed further. Feeling her throat tighten and contract around the head. Each cough. Each gag. Sent a ripple of sensation up his shaft. Taking pity on her, he pulled back slightly, allowing Beatrice a few hurried gulps of air before continuing his assault.

  Beatrice’s eyes were tightly closed as she tried to endure. She couldn’t breathe. His shaft filled her mouth and throat. Her jaw ached. She was surrounded by the feel, sound and scent of him. It was all him. Nothing but him.

  Never in her life had she been so taken over by another. Her mind and body were not her own. They were his to command.

  It was galling.

  It was infuriating.

  It was strangely thrilling.

  Her stomach twisted at the undeniable thought. His raw power. His domination. His forcefulness made her feel…made her feel vulnerable, small…feminine. She loathed and loved the impression.

  Damn she was magnificent, thought Rhys. Her mouth on his cock was one of the most exhilarating experiences of his life. Had she been a weaker woman, it would have merely been a needed release. But this was Beatrice. His Bea. His fierce feline. Holding power over a spirited woman was an awe-inspiring, precious gift. A strong woman did not relent to just any man. Only to the man. Their mate. The one who was strong enough to take them on but intelligent enough to give them some rein. He was that man for Bea and he would make sure she never forgot it.

  Her throat weakening. Her resistance ebbing. Rhys thrust till her nose touched his abdomen. Feeling a primal sense of pride at her ability to take him down her throat whole. Now that she was primed, it was time to unleash his faltering control.

  “Time to put that lovely mouth of yours to far better use than to sling insults my way,” he grit out, still trying to hold back.

  Beatrice tried to shake her head no but was prevented by his grip on her hair and his cock still lodged just past her lips inside her mouth. What more could he possibly do, she thought frantically. He had already shown her that men do put their members in a woman’s mouth. Was there more to it than that?

  Rhys released his hold on her tresses and placed his hand next to the first on the headboard. He didn’t want to bear down on her with his full weight, at least not this first time.

  Pulling back, he thrust deep, straight to his lust tightened balls…but this time he didn’t stop. Pulling back, he thrust in again, harder. Beatrice started to scream, the sound sending delicious vibrations up and down his cock. Still he thrust. Watching as his cock disappeared straight down her tortured throat.

  “That’s it, love. Take it. Take all of it,” he ground out between shortened breaths.

  Beatrice struggled. Pulling on her bonds, she kicked out her feet. Her hips rose and fell against the soft bedcovers. She tried twisting her body to and fro. Nothing would dislodge him. Nothing would stop the unending thrust of his cock down her throat. She was being used. Used by him. By the stable master. She tilted her head back as a final recourse. Then she heard it. He moaned. A moan of pure pleasure. Beatrice felt a small spark of power. She tilted her head again. The movement causing her throat to tighten around his shaft. Another moan. She moved her tongue, caressing the underside and the crest. Yet, another moan.

  “Damn, woman. You’re going to be the death of me,” Rhys groaned through clenched teeth, as he moved his hands to place them over her tied ones.

  Beatrice felt a delightful little rush, to be completely dominated and yet still have power.

  Unable to contain himself a moment longer, Rhys pulled free of her tight, wet mouth.

  Moving over her sleek body, he positioned his hips between her soft thighs.

  Beatrice’s torso shot off the bed as his mouth closed over one pert nipple. Still slightly swollen from his punishment of earlier, it was extremely sensitive. The feel of his harsh tongue as it lapped and sucked sent shocking waves of pleasure coursing through her limbs.

  “No. Stop,” she begged, her voice hoarse and rough.

  Placing both hands on either side of her head, he leaned down to harshly command. “Ask me to fuck you.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  “I…I…I cannot!”

  “You can and you will.”

  “Please, don’t ask it of me. You don’t understand.”

  Rhys did not know whether she was objecting because she thought him nothing but a servant or because of the engagement her father had arranged…to him. He didn’t care. She was not allowed to object to one of his commands in bed. Ever.

  Beatrice was not thinking of his station in life or her father’s edict. It was the curse. The gypsy said only through pain would she know love. Was he her curse? Was it only through his promise of pain and punishment, his overpowering of her senses that she would allow herself to relent and fall in love? The idea frightened Beatrice more than his hold on her.

  Bearing down on her. His cock brushing the entrance to her cunny. He growled, “I understand all I need to know. You need this. Whether you want to admit it or not. You need my strength. My power. Your body is begging to be tamed. To be claimed. By me.”

  “Untie me first,” she demanded. Then added a soft, “Please”.

  Without breaking eye contact, he reached over their bodies to release the knot holding her wrists. Beatrice’s hands immediately went to his face.

  Despite the obvious threat of harm, Rhys held his position.

  But it was not with her claws she touched him, but rather her fingertips. Soft and gentle, she traced the planes of his face. The sharp
edge of his jaw. The outline of his lips. The scratches he received from her earlier.

  Every bone in his body. Each pulse of blood. Every aspect of his very being, screamed out to just fuck her. Claim what was already his. It took all his control to remain still. To allow her this small concession before he took all from her.

  Her amber eyes still shone with uncertainty when she breathed, “Please…please fuck me.”

  He felt more than heard her capitulation. With those few hesitant words, his control snapped.

  Rearing up to tower over her, he placed his hands on the delicate skin of her inner thighs, spreading them wide. Shifting his hips, he thrust forward.

  Her body accepted the tip of his shaft but not without a struggle. Gliding his hands up her thighs, he placed them on her hips, raising her up. This time when he thrust, he pulled her body forward with his powerful arms. Ruthlessly impaling her straight to the hilt. Driving through her delicate maidenhead.

  Beatrice opened her mouth on a silent scream as she fisted the bedcovers. The sharp inescapable ache bringing tears to her eyes. Her body felt stretched and pulled as it strained to accommodate his girth. He was inside of her. Part of her. Taking over her body. A pulsing, throbbing heat.

  Rhys continued to thrust in a building rhythm. Leaning down to kiss the sensitive spot just below her ear, he ground out, “You are mine now, princess.”

  His words caused her already tight sheath to clench down on his cock. Beatrice reached around to clutch at his back, her nails digging in. She drew them down the full length. Leaving her mark on him as he had on her. The touch of pain drove him on. With increasing vigor, he pounded into her delicate passage.

  Beatrice, overcome with new and complex emotions, clung to his broad shoulders. Still it was not enough. She needed more…something…more. In her ardor, she bit down on his neck. As her sharp teeth sunk deep into his flesh, she felt a primal surge. All her senses were alert. The rich, earthy scent of him. The acrid, tang of his blood on the tip of her tongue. The sound of his harsh breathing in her ear. The feel of his chest hair brushing against her nipples. It all rushed over her with crystal clarity.

  Biting. Clawing. Clenching. Thrusting.